


Reprieve

by cesau



Series: Duma Faithful AU [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, M/M, Pointless, Soullessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cesau/pseuds/cesau
Summary: At Nuibaba's Abode, Forsyth attempts to shed some light on the shadow of his friend.Heads up: this will not make any sense at all if you haven't read the first part.





	Reprieve

Forsyth hadn't seen Python all day.

A low panic was starting to bubble up within him, although this had really been his own fault to begin with. Forsyth was the one who'd taken off that morning, leaving Python alone in the castle's great hall. His aim at the time had been to gather just a few minutes to himself, an attempt to level out some of the heavier thoughts in his mind. But a few minutes had turned into a few hours, and then most of the day, and Forsyth was beginning to worry.

Leaving had been selfish, and he regretted it fully now. But he had needed the escape.

Before the mountain, their lives had been a blur of battlefields. They moved from battle to camp to road with no break in between, no time to think. Here, it was different. Here, the only battle to be fought was standing right in front of him, and the trouble was that Forsyth had no idea how he was meant to fight it.

Right from the start, the change had overtaken most of Python, leaving only a shadow of the man he had been. But that shadow was still him, in some ways – or at least that was how Forsyth reasoned it out in his mind, the way he'd needed to see it for his own efforts to have been worth anything, to survive. And he had been – still was – desperate for it to be the truth, and to preserve what little remained, whatever it took.

But he had no idea how to do that.

Very early on, he'd taken to rambling at Python (because he was beyond talking to, even then), chattering on about any old memory he could dig up from their shared childhood in their hometown. Pointless things, mostly: the river they always played at; the baker who sneaked them treats at day's end; the old man whose garden they'd once inadvertently trampled, who threw a fit every time he saw them thereafter. He spoke of anything and everything he could think of, and on occasion, Python would mumble back some response, a scattering of random words with no real rhyme or reason to them, but it meant he'd heard _something_ of what Forsyth had said. It was a reaction.

But as the fighting had gone on, there had been less time for talking. Forsyth couldn't have said whether that had been why those hints of Python's old self had started to fade, or whether it was an inevitability all along.

But he had a vague sense of hope, when they reached the castle at Fear Mountain, that the reprieve from fighting would give him another chance to draw something of the old Python out of the husk the Rigelians had made of him.

They and the others in their battalion had arrived at the castle two days ago and immediately been set loose on the grounds. To Forsyth's surprise, there was really no order demanded of them, no training or drills to be run: their commander had marched them up the mountain and essentially handed them over to the lady of the castle, who was content to have an entire host of soldiers wandering her property unsupervised. Perhaps her casual trust was because a not-insignificant number of those soldiers were of the Duma Faithful and therefore loyal to her anyway. It wasn't as if they had any reason to upset her.

Regardless of the reason, Forsyth was ready to take advantage of the sudden downtime. Right away, he started to try engaging Python in conversation again, but if his earlier attempts had been disheartening, his latest were completely hopeless. He talked and talked and Python only stared at him blankly, and none of Forsyth's words registered any change in that empty expression.

And it was painful, to see that. It felt like a warning, and it made him think there might really be no coming back from the depths to which Python had sunk. There was so little left to begin with, and to think even that much couldn't be recovered...

It was overwhelming, and Forsyth had panicked. That morning, he'd run off as fast as he could, relieved that Python either wasn't able or hadn't tried to follow. Now, he was panicking again, because he'd come to his senses and realized that if his goal was to help Python, abandoning him really hadn't been the most sensible course of action.

The truth was, when he wandered back to the great hall hours after he'd left, he expected Python to still be there, waiting. The only time he did much of anything these days was when he followed Forsyth around, so there really wasn't any reason for him to have left.

But he had, apparently, and Forsyth might have wondered about that more if he weren't so caught up in the simple act of finding him. After the great hall, he checked their sleeping quarters, the dining hall, the training grounds, any place the others tended to congregate, but Python was nowhere to be seen.

Out of ideas, Forsyth began searching the castle at random, that worry continuing to build, vehemently ignoring the possibility that Python hadn't, in fact, wandered off – that something else might have happened to him.

But after much frantic searching, Forsyth found him standing alone in a vaguely familiar and otherwise empty corridor, staring at a tapestry hanging along the wall. Python stood with one arm held out, the fabric of the thing twisted in his hand, and Forsyth almost instinctively shouted at him – Python might not have held the higher class in much regard, but surely even he realized the trouble he could get them into, blatantly disrespecting the castle lord's property like that. But Python turned to look at him before Forsyth had even opened his mouth, and his words died in his throat.

Reality set in quickly, looking at the black of his eyes, and Forsyth remembered at once that his words would have been wasted. Instead, he sighed and hurried over to Python, ready to coax him into relaxing his grip, but Python dropped his arm back down to his side as soon as he approached.

For the life of him, Forsyth couldn't imagine what was going through his mind (what was left of his mind, anyway). It was fitting, in a horrible sort of way, he supposed: he'd never understood Python before, so why should he start now?

“You can't do things like that,” he muttered, turning to the tapestry. He smoothed it out as best he could, grateful there were no marks or tears visible. When he was satisfied, he stepped back, curious about what, exactly, had caught Python's attention.

The tapestry was...completely indistinct, as far as Forsyth could tell. It didn't seem to be depicting anything important, only a gray castle atop a hill of green grass. There were small figures woven into the foreground, little splotches of gray, but for the most part, it was an entirely unremarkable piece of work. Which explained why it was hanging in some abandoned hallway, at least.

“How did you even get here?” Forsyth asked, turning to Python once more (and intentionally directing his gaze over his shoulder, away from his eyes). “Did you come here on your own?”

Python's only response was to stare at him.

“What were you doing?” Forsyth tried again. Still, no response. Frustrated, he sighed and jabbed a hand out at the tapestry, coming perilously close to the sort of action he'd just been about to scold Python for. “What's so interesting about this thing?”

Python actually turned his head to follow his movement and stare at where he pointed, and that was almost encouraging. It would have been more so, had it lasted longer than a brief moment before Python lost interest and returned to staring blankly at Forsyth.

Subjected to that empty gaze again, Forsyth felt the faint urge to cry, but mostly, he was overcome with pure exhaustion, a sense of tired resignation. He stepped back against the opposite wall and sank to the floor, pulled his knees up, and closed his eyes. Lost, he felt lost. And he wanted to laugh, too, because in the past, this was the part where Python would show up out of nowhere and needle him until he stopped feeling sorry for himself.

Head resting on his arms, he heard Python move, heard him sit down beside him. He only opened his eyes at the feel of Python's arm reaching around him, pulling him close, and Forsyth kept his gaze directed at the ground, even as he rested his head on Python's shoulder. This, he supposed, was why it was so hard. _This_ couldn't be anything but Python, as far gone as he was. Something completely without a will of its own shouldn't have any interest in providing comfort.

And as Forsyth sat there, waiting for the barb that would never come, waiting for Python to _say something_ , his exhaustion gave way to frustration instead. Because this was _like_ Python, yes, but it still wasn't him, not really. It wasn't _enough_ of him. Meanwhile, Python's hand moved from his shoulder into his hair, fingers threading through it, and the touch should not have been so reassuring.

The action pushed a lock of Forsyth's hair into his face, and he looked up and blinked, staring through his own hair at the tapestry and he finally understood what had happened today, and it was somehow infuriating.

The corridor was familiar because he'd passed through it earlier, in his hurry to escape. And Python must have tried to follow him, and in looking for him, had found that damned tapestry instead, and it was stupid but the only thing that stood out about it was that the lower half of it, the green of the grass, was the same color as Forsyth's hair, and as asinine as it sounded, Forsyth was confident that had been exactly what had drawn Python's eye.

Because somehow, that was what it always came down to. This was just another in a long series of attempts at one of them trying to protect the other. It was how all this had started, after all. Perhaps they had always relied on each other too much. 

“Why is that all that's left?” he asked, caught between the emptiness and the anger. He ducked out of Python's hold, backed away and climbed to his feet and looked down at him there on the floor, and Python's eyes followed him the entire time.

“There's more to you than this,” Forsyth said, panic creeping into his voice, and he was near to shouting again. “There's more to you than _me_. I can't...I can't be all that's left! Why don't you remember anything else? You're not-”

_You're not Python,_ he almost said, but he buried the words in his mind before they even had the chance to leave his mouth. The thought was always there, simmering just below the surface, and he was determined that was where it would stay: out of reach.

“This isn't like you,” he said instead, softly. “Laugh at me, or call me a fool. Don't just... _stare_ at me. You were never this quiet.” He paused, surprised at a sudden realization, something he'd missed. “And neither was I." He sighed. "You probably would have said something about that.”

For the first time, Forsyth wondered at how he himself had changed. Always, he'd been the loud one, the brash one, the energetic one. Now, he was just...tired. Empty. He had the maddening thought that they'd been together so long that it had become a situation where if Python wasn't Python, how could Forsyth be Forsyth? He'd never been alone before, and now he couldn't even tell whether that was still the case. It tangled together in his mind until just thinking about it was exhausting.

“I can't be all that's left of you,” he said again. And even through the desperation in his voice, he had the sinking feeling that his words were falling on deaf ears, the meaning already lost.

Python stood and approached him, reached out to touch him and then hesitated. And for the first time in a long time, his expression changed. He frowned and his eyes darted to the side, he dropped his hand back to his side and looked away, and it was just a little thing, but it was something. It was a change, and it was human, and it might not have been his most common expression but Forsyth had seen him make that face before.

It was Python, something of the old him still left. Forsyth sighed and pulled him into an embrace, surprised but not at all displeased to feel Python's hands at his back, returning it. There must have been more, Forsyth decided. Not everything that had been lost was beyond recovery. And he swore he would find a way to bring him back.

He just needed more time.

**Author's Note:**

> Codependence is terribly romantic. Emphasis on the _terrible_.


End file.
